


Parallax

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Games, Psychic Doubles, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the mission at the Russian Military Retreat, Erik wonders how much Charles' powers mirror those of Shaw's telepath, Emma Frost. Charles is just wound-up and jet lagged enough to show him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallax

It's well past nightfall when they make it back to Moscow. Charles sees to it that there aren't questions when they check into the hotel -- to the clerk at the front desk, they're a cohort of bureaucrats, the sort of KGB pencil-pushers it's become increasingly dangerous to irk. And as if by magic, a set of rooms opens for them on the fourth floor.

"You're sure I can't talk you into joining us for some late night shchi?" Moria asks. "Levine knows a place not far from here, and we should all do everything we can to keep our strength up."

"More government orders?" Erik snipes.

Charles raises a hand, knowing well enough that Erik can only be silenced of his own will. "Thank you, Moira, but no. I think what Erik means to say is that it's been a long day, and the promise of sleep is a bit more persuasive than supper."

Moira nods. She's bundled up, but her eyes shine out from beneath the band of her fur cap. He senses worry from her, and care, and also something lower, deeper; something he hasn't the heart to name.

"All right," she says, looking between Charles and Erik. "See you at oh-five-hundred."

When she's out of earshot, Erik says, "I think we should pay a visit to Shaw's telepath -- I know where they're holding her for transport. Let's see if there's anything more we can uncover."

"There are limits to what we can do here, Erik," Charles replies, trying not to sound too weary. "It was bad enough to barge into the Retreat at all. Do you realize how _bad_ things could have gone? We were outnumbered twenty to one by guards armed to the teeth."

"Come, Charles," Erik drawls. He reaches out and rustles the hair at the nape of Charles' neck, and despite himself, Charles pushes into the touch. It only lasts a moment, but Erik presses on chidingly, "You're worth at least _three_ guards in fortitude alone. Twenty, maybe twenty-five if you count your power."

Charles sniffs. "I don't see things that way. You know I don't."

"You must, if we're to win this."

"I haven't ruled out a zero sum. If Shaw can be pulled off course without a fight--"

"No," Erik cuts him off. "He won't. You don't _know_."

 _You don't know him like I do._

But Charles does, or at least more than he likes. He shared some of what was in Emma Frost's mind with Erik -- enough for Erik to see what stands at stake -- but not the whole of it, not the vast, burning wasteland of Washington, not the pain of a billion souls snuffed out without pretense or care.

Such a vision rings too true.

And if people like Shaw ought not be rehabilitated, what of mutants like him? Shaw would have to be stopped, and soon, and yet Charles knows it must be done without violence. The public's first glimpse of mutantkind cannot be steeped in destruction. There _is_ a better way--

"Charles?" Erik asks. "You look like you're miles gone."

"Sorry," Charles says. "Just tired."

Erik nods, shortly. "Then I will leave you, my friend. Until the morning." He crosses the hall and motions at his door: it opens and closes behind him without the barest touch.

After a few minutes spent fumbling through his pockets for the key, Charles retreats into his own room, takes off his coat, and parts the curtains just enough to stare out on the cold, restless street.

*

"Erik? What time is it?"

"Does it matter? You haven't slept any more than I have."

Charles nods, blinking blearily up at him. It's a wonder Erik even bothered to knock. Erik is backlit in the limited light of the corridor, and his hair is a bit mussed, but Charles' gaze just lingers on the tanned flesh that's left exposed by the part in his robe, a plush, off-purple thing Charles hasn't seen him wear before, even in the privacy of Erik's room back on the base.

"How'd you know?" Charles asks, dashing the tip of his tongue over his lips. Only to wet them. Only because the air here is marked by a harshness he's unused to. (He tells himself this.) But the catch in his throat, the tremor in his chest: these are caused by Erik only.

Erik smiles and pushes past him. "Your watch hasn't stopped moving for the last hour," he says, retrieving two glasses from the cabinet, and then with proprietorial ease he takes a seat at the head of the bed. He sets the glasses on the nightstand. "Pacing?"

"Jet lag," Charles admits.

"There are remedies for that." Erik reaches into a fold in his robe -- a pocket, Charles realizes -- and unveils a nearly-full bottle of vodka. He pours a measure of it for each of them.

They don't toast. This is nothing formal. But Charles still stares into his glass curiously before he takes a sip. "Where'd you find it?"

"Need I remind you where we are?" Erik throws back most of his drink, then stares at Charles, his eyes half-lidded but still sharp. "It's from the general's private reserve. Consider it a souvenir."

Charles smiles and settles into the nearby armchair. "Clever."

"What, no admonishment? The climate here hasn't made your morality go soft, has it?"

With a neat flick of his wrist, Charles empties his glass, then waits for Erik to dole out another finger before he continues, "Quite the opposite."

"What, then?"

"I've been... thinking about Shaw's telepath. Emma Frost. I cannot fathom why she would go along with him, why she would allow herself to be swayed--"

"What makes you think she hasn't chosen this life?"

"She's strong, Erik. I felt it in her."

Erik scoffs, "That means less than you think. When presented with power, with wealth-- with the chance to be on what she believes is the winning side. Well, why wouldn't she align herself with Shaw? It's damning, yes. But I think you only regret you didn't find her first."

By now, the vodka has warmed its way into Charles' guts, and softened his thoughts with a pleasant hum. He hasn't the vanity to tell Erik he's wrong.

And he isn't. Even when Charles first extracted the image of Emma Frost from Moira's mind, he wondered what it would mean to stand in the company of another telepath. If Frost had met Charles instead of Shaw, yes, if Charles had got to her first-- Charles can't venture a guess at the sort of feats they might undertake.

It's folly.

Erik is watching him, a tight smile curling his mouth. "Are you not similar, Charles?"

"Not really. I can't change my form," Charles says, taking his body in with a wave. "Unfortunately, with _this_ telepath, what you see is what you get."

"What if I like what I see?"

Months ago, Charles had pledged to not enter Erik's mind without his consent. And to this day, he hasn't.

But he can't help but pick up on Erik's surface thoughts now and then, especially when they're so close, and especially when they're not so much thoughts, but rather a brief, vivid image of Charles and Erik in bed. Charles sees himself, naked, sweaty, writhing and pleasure-drunk as Erik drives into him again and again. His skin is flushed pink all over, and red where Erik's mouth has been. Where his teeth have sunk, just so.

Even the parts of himself Charles is least proud of -- the hint of paunch at his belly, a reminder of the takeaway curry addiction he'd picked up while writing his thesis, and the too-lean muscles he's certain could never be as well defined as Erik's -- appear new and wonderful in Erik's mind.

//Erik,// Charles sends, swallowing roughly. //You can't really mean it.//

Then again, it was probably just the heat of a fleeting moment.

"What she did to that Russian. Can you do that?" Erik asks.

And again, it's probably the vodka clouding Charles' own judgment. If it wasn't, he wouldn't say this: "Project my image into your mind? You mean when we walked in on Frost and the general-- I can do _that_. It has been a while--" years, years ago, and only to the nameless humans Charles picked up in town "--but yes."

"Show me," Erik breathes. With a swift movement, he slips out of his robe, letting it pool at his feet. He's already hard; but Charles could see that before, even through the thick weave of fabric.

Charles sucks in a breath. He shifts in his chair, half-hard himself.

He sets two fingers to his temple.

And as carefully as he's able, he reaches out--

Erik is like a churning sea. It takes a few moments for Charles to grapple for a foothold and gain his bearings. When he does, a shudder passes through him, mind and body. He's wanted this for so long, longed for it ever since he pulled Erik off his course and saved him from drowning. But to Charles, a promise is a bond that must be kept -- if he didn't respect Erik's wishes, all of Charles' own moral pathways meant nothing.

Now, Erik wishes for Charles alone. Charles gives him this: the best of him. What Erik deserves.

Which is what Charles imagines of himself in idle moments. A little taller, but still not as tall as Erik. A bit more wiry; thin, but broader in the shoulders. Naked, and warm, with hands wide enough to take in Erik's jaw and cheek with one touch -- but these hands are his own.

As far as fantasies go, it's hardly outlandish. But Charles doesn't like to kid himself, or to make the coming down any harder than it has to be.

"I _feel_ you," Erik says, low and amazed. "How can that be?"

//No sensation exists in the flesh that isn't first channeled through the mind. Neural highways are the fastest routes in existence,// Charles sends. //I'm telling you that my hands are on your face, and as far as your brain is concerned, it's true.//

Charles feels the pull of resistance. It's instinctual, but it's also not something he can ignore. He begins to pull back, immediately regretting the loss of contact.

"No." Erik grapples to hold on to Charles' fading projection -- it's a bit disconcerting for Charles to watch: in his view, Erik is surrounded by empty air. But Erik is shaking his head. "No, Charles. I can take this. Don't stop--"

//Don't-- I need you.//

Charles shivers as Erik's plea hits him, and he dives back in, tells Erik that his hands are moving down Erik's chest, his hips, stroking the hot, taut fibres of his thighs and the sinew where his leg meets his groin.

He tells Erik that they're kissing, that Charles' tongue is sliding into Erik's mouth. For a few breathless minutes, they stay like that. Then Charles pulls back. He lets Erik see him.

Erik shakes his head, blinking. "This isn't--" And then: //No, Charles. I want _you_.//

//Really, my friend.// Gently, Charles lets his projected self slide into actuality, paunch and all. //You've peculiar taste.//

"Quiet." Erik's mouth closes back over Charles'. It needn't silence him, not when he can simply send the thought into Erik's mind, but he allows it to just the same. When Erik looks at him again, Erik smiles. "I never cared much for diamonds."

//Yes?// Shifting in his chair again, Charles runs the heel of his hand over his groin. His trousers are still zipped, and even through the layers of fabric, he savors the press of the metal against his straining cock.

"Oh." Erik, again, panting. His fists open and close, kneading the air where Charles' shoulders would be. "I can _feel_ that."

//What?// Charles asks.

Erik closes his eyes, breathes deeply, moves his hand away. "This."

The metal of Charles' zip begins to vibrate, just barely, but the sensation sends a jolt of pleasure up his spine. It's all he can do to not take himself out and finish just as quickly.

But Charles needs this too. He needs it to last.

His projection takes Erik's cock in hand, runs the pad of a thumb over the tip, works the shaft in low, firm swipes. And Charles also sees this: Erik stroking himself. The two images meld, dance like leaves on the surface of a lake.

"Charles. Charles, _please_."

//Tell me what you want, Erik.//

Erik shudders as Charles makes him tighten his grip, urging him to speed up. "I want _this_ \-- all of you."

The raw emotion -- the ore formed of need and ever-present awe -- behind Erik's words makes Charles flush more than the words themselves. Now he does work his hand on his trousers, pushing them down enough to part his briefs and take his cock in his fist.

He can't keep the projection going. The sensation is too much. Erik's mind is awash in want, and every beat shifts back over Charles, amplified and urgent.

//Oh, Erik.//

Then it's just them, the two of them, Charles in his chair and Erik on the bed; Charles fully clothed and Erik naked, glowing with the intermittent street-glare. And both panting, guileless, utterly lost in that one moment.

Charles comes first, spilling hot into his palm. Erik's not far behind him. They spend a few moments recovering, every breath a heavy pulse through lungs and throat.

Then Erik shifts a little, catching Charles' eye. "It was always just us."

Charles hadn't realized he'd projected that particular thought; he probably ought to be more cautious. Probably ought, but he won't, not while Erik's leaning forward and kissing him in truth. Charles tastes sweat, and beneath that, the low, earthy tang that's unmistakably Erik. The sudden physicality is so _good_.

Even if it's just them, he doesn't want anything else.

While Erik retreats to the en-suite in search of a washcloth, Charles serves them each another share of vodka. For this voyage, the hangover of a night well-spent isn't the worst keepsake he can imagine.

"And besides," Erik says later, when they're stretched together on Charles' bed, "it's a twelve hour flight. I'm sure you'll eventually feel well enough to make us disappear from the cabin for a while. Your showing in the back of that truck was impressive. Will you tell me what other gifts you have locked away in there?"

"You'll see everything," Charles murmurs into Erik's shoulder. "In time."


End file.
